31 Days of April
by kay2164
Summary: April Reese and David Porter seem have nothing in common, except difficult pasts that they can't seem to avoid. They seem to be each other's only hope. A story about, loss, love, and the importance of family and friendship.
1. Prolouge

**Prologue**

I was numb. I couldn't feel the tips of my fingers, or the ends of my toes. I was sweating, but I didn't feel hot, I was freezing. It was unusually warm for a mid-April day. _April_. My father named me April. It was the month of my birthday. My parents had thought I was going to be a boy, so they hadn't even thought of any girl's names. So, when I was born, a girl, they were at a complete loss at what to name me. My father suggested April, seeing as I was born the first day of the month, and the name stuck.

I wiped the sweat off my forehead, as I cursed the heat, the cloudless sky. It was almost as if the weather was mocking me, mocking my family, _mocking my father_.

I was his favorite. He often pretended as though he didn't have favorites, but we all knew. My older sister and brothers were often rather bitter about it. I got the most attention; he always came home from work with presents for me, and none for my siblings. I was his baby, after all. Don't get me wrong, he loved my siblings dearly, but I was his favorite.

Maybe that was why I was numb. Yes, my sister and brothers were grieving, but they were doing just that, they were grieving. I, on the other hand, refused to handle with my pain, with my sorrow, with my guilt, by doing the only thing I knew how; not dealing with it at all. Although I could not feel my fingers or toes, I could avidly feel the gaping, excruciating hole in my heart. It took every ounce of courage, dignity, every bit of discipline I had, not to scream out in agony, not to pound all the weeping people, with my fists. To make them understand, to make them feel half as bad as I did. My pain was beyond tears. I was numb.


	2. What's Left of My Family

Each of my siblings had a different way of dealing with the untimely passing of my father. My elder sister, Rose had been hysterically crying for three consecutive days. She was the one who was collecting the most pity, for she was the one who was openly showing her sorrow. Believe it or not, Rose was the one who was dealing with our father's demise the healthiest.

William, my nineteen year old brother, took a very different approach than Rose. He was furious. He tried desperately to hide this fact (mostly for me and his younger brother's benefit), but was without success. As I looked down at his hands, I saw his white knuckles, and balled up fists. I took note that whenever he glanced over at my dad's deceased body his deep, green eyes would light up with such fury and hatred that shivers ran down my spine, until they reached my toes, and gave them an unpleasant feeling that I didn't particularly care for. I felt for William. He and I were close. He was very protective of me, and I of him, although he didn't really know that. I alone knew the reason behind his fury. I alone knew him well enough to understand. Most people think I am an ignorant, naïve, little fourteen year old girl, I however, am not. I notice things. Little things. Things that others wouldn't give the time of day. Will was angry with my father. He was angry because he left him with the responsibility of taking care of us; he was the oldest boy, therefore, the man of the house. He hated it all. He had wanted to go to college; he couldn't now that he and Rose both had to find decent paying jobs, to support us.

My older brother Mark was almost seventeen, the closest to my age. I worried the most about Mark. Mark had no fire in his eyes. No, his baby blue eyes, so like our fathers, were dull and lifeless. Something that I, in all my years of knowing Mark (my whole life) had never witnessed. Mark was remarkably happy-go-lucky. Albeit shy, he was almost always smiling, or laughing, or delighting us with his dry, yet, amazingly witty, sense of humor. Now, however, Mark hadn't smiled, laughed, or said a single word since we heard the terrible news.

Hours past, days, weeks, months. There is nothing to tell of those days because, well, I hardly remember them. I vaguely remember the funeral. I hardly remember the huge argument Rose and William had. I don't even remember what it was about. I do, however, remember sitting on our staircase listening to William and Rose's shouted voices. I remember Mark sitting next to me with his arm wrapped protectively around my waist. He then spoke the first words he had said in weeks "It'll all be okay." he had said. His voice was hoarse and raspy. He told me this even though he looked a thousand times more shaken by this argument than I did. He told me this even though he was the one who hadn't spoken to a single soul in weeks. He told me this to comfort me, even though he was the one who needed comforting. He told me this because he loved me. He did it because although we weren't nearly as close as William and I, he was still my big brother, and I, his baby sister.


	3. Forgotten Nightmares

I woke up, on June 14th, the day before school ended, two months after my father departed. My shirt was covered in sweat, as were my sheets. I looked over at Rose. She was staring at me from across the room, in her bed. Her deep green eyes looked troubled, her forehead was creased, and her full lips were slightly opened. She was analyzing me. I wiped the sweat off my face with my already moist covers, and got out of bed. Rose followed suit. She was at least a head taller than me. Her wavy jet-black hair fell to the small of her back. Her nose is small. Her lips are full. Rose's skin was incredibly pale, which deeply contrasted with her dark emerald eyes. She looked like a porcelain doll. A masterpiece, at that. Rose was a beauty. Her looks made heads turn, men and women alike. Her smile was stunning, and almost every guy she had ever encountered had tried at least once to make some kind of move on her. With one exception.

She had inherited our mother's beauty. Something, that I had not, which I was almost constantly reminded by my family members. I look like my father. I almost have the exact shade of his baby blue eyes. I have his reddish brown hair. I had gotten his slightly larger than average, nose. My thin lips, small hands, and bushy eye brows, I had also received from him. My hair however, although brown, had my mother's texture, and thickness. My hair is wavy like Rose's, and was the only thing I was ever complimented on. I, however, think my eyes were my best quality. I don't have my mother's beautiful green eyes like Rose and William. I don't have my dad's baby blue ones like Mark.. No, my eyes are all mine. Not my mother's. I don't have her eyes, or really even my father's, I have a mixture of both. I have blue irises, but around my pupil was my mother's deep green, though hardly anybody ever looks close enough to notice this.

"What happened?" Rose asked, sounding genuinely concerned. "Nothing," I replied. She looked unconvinced. "Then why were you thrashing around in your sleep? Why are you soaked in sweat?"

"Nightmare." I answered

"I got that." She snapped back "What kid of nightmare? What is that bad?" she asked edgily.

"I don't even remember it." I replied truthfully as I shrugged my shoulders.

I really didn't remember it. I just remember being terrified. I smiled, which I knew didn't reach my eyes. I knew my sister didn't believe that I was alright; she had been waiting anxiously for the last two months for me to show sings of grief, and was so far disappointed. I was still completely consumed in my numbness. I refused to believe that my father was de… my father was de…my father had passed on. For all I knew my father gone away on a business trip for a really long time. It was unhealthy, but it was the only thing that kept me from falling apart then and there.

Everyone was healing, everyone except me. Rose still cried, but not nearly as heavy, or as often. William was no longer angry, just simply annoyed. Mark had made the most progress. He now talked frequently, he just didn't smile, laugh, or tell jokes, but it was nonetheless a rather huge step toward recovery. Dad's passing was hard on all of us. Rose and William were now Mark's and my legal guardians, seeing as none of us want anything to do with our wretched mother.

I hate my mother. She left us when I was three years of age. I hardly remember her. We have a few pictures of her. I know she looks like Rose, but I don't know the details, like the smell of her perfume, or what her arms feel like. I don't care for the details. She wanted nothing to do with me, and I want nothing to do with her. Since the day she walked out that front door, she was dead to me, and my family.

I walked down the steps, and was about to open the door to the kitchen, when I heard apprehensive, hushed voices.

"Rose, it was probably just a nightmare." I heard William say.

"It must have been really bad, Will. You should have heard her. If she hadn't been screaming into her pillow, you probably _would have_ heard her."

"I doubt that," Mark added, rolling his eyes. Rose sighed in defeat. She knew she was being ganged up on. "I'm worried about her though, she hasn't cried at all since _it_ happened." Rose said, changing the subject, but making sure to keep it on me.

"No, that she hasn't done." I heard William state softly.

"She's a lot tougher than we give her credit for." Mark injected.

I felt a swell of pride rise in my chest. He thought I was_ tough._ I knew better, I knew I was the exact opposite, but it was nice to hear, nonetheless. I heard my stomach growl. I ran up the stairs, and made sure that my way down the steps was nice and noisy, so that they could stop their conversation, and not know that I was eavesdropping. I opened the kitchen door. None of them looked surprised to see me, which was a good sign.

Mark smiled slightly at me. The sight nearly broke my heart. I was only a ghost of his old, fun loving smile. I tried to smile back, but it turned out to be more of a scowl. I sat down at my spot at our dinner table, to eat breakfast. William, Mark, and Rose did the same. It was a depressing sight. Not one of us said a single word, seeing as we had nothing to discuss. William kept glancing up at me from his Froot Loops, giving me suspicious looks. I made sure not to make eye contact with him.

I stalled finishing breakfast as long as I possibly could. I didn't want to give the other's another opportunity to talk about me behind my back. William glowered at me. I looked around. Both Rose and Mark had left the kitchen. My stalling worked, at least to a certain extent. I had somehow known that I wouldn't be able to get rid of him. Will's green eyes were piercing. I wouldn't be surprised if he could see straight through my head, his gaze was so intense. He cocked his head to the right, furrowing his brow. I knew that look anywhere.

He was sizing me up. He knew that what he was thinking about saying would cause an uproar, and he was seeing whether or not, I could handle one of the now uncommon arguments about my wellbeing. I didn't flinch, cringe, or recoil. Instead I held his gaze, with equal, if not more, intensity. He flinched. He didn't seem to like what he saw in the depths of my eyes. I equally didn't like what I saw in his. For some unknown reason he was angry with me. And for a reason I couldn't quite put my finger on, I was irritated by William. He and I were one in the same. We understood each other, and talked with our eyes. He understood exactly what I was telling him, by staring so penetratingly. In short, I was basically saying to him, "Bring it on."

He smiled crookedly; a smile that I knew made numerous girls' hearts skip several beats. He was a charmer, that Will. My heart however, continued to beat perfectly normal. I didn't smile. I looked him dead in the eyes, and raised my eyebrows. He sighed, and I knew he was thinking the exact same thing as I was; we are entirely too much alike. Both of us are utterly too stubborn for our own good. "I know you were listening at the door," rolling his eyes at me. I froze. How could he have possibly known that? I was so careful. It was my turn to be exasperated. "You don't know that." I told him, trying to convince him that I hadn't been listening. I knew however, that my face would give me away.

"I know _you_," Will said, a teasing gleam in his eyes. "That's what you do, April. You listen at doors. You always_ have_ done it. I remember doing it with you, actually." He smiled. It was a small smile, hardly worthy of any importance, and had it been another time, I wouldn't have paid it any mind. Except, this smile didn't quite reach his beautiful eyes. It was a fake. He was smiling to make me feel better, even though the only thing it managed to do was make me feel worse. He didn't smile because he wanted to; he smiled because he felt that he was obligated to.

As I rode the school bus home from school, I couldn't help but feel a pair of eyes on my back. I ignored them, trying very hard not to give them the satisfaction of getting to me. I felt naked, exposed, even though I was dressed remarkably heavy for an early summer day. I was, for some unknown reason, more anxious today than I usually was. I breathed a sigh of relief as the bus reached my neighborhood. I stumbled down the steps of the school bus. A couple other people followed me out. I closed my eyes, and sighed. I was taken aback by how unsteady it was. I threw my backpack off, and sat down on the curb. I sighed again, this one, a fraction more stable than the last. I took a deep breath, and put my head in my hands. The nightmare from this morning had shaken me deeply. I could hardly remember anything about said dream. I only remember the raw, intense fear that bubbled up inside me, ready to explode. I wasn't frightened by my dream. No, it was the fear itself that terrified me. It was the first emotion I had felt in months, and it startled me.

I was so preoccupied wondering what on earth this dream of mine could possibly mean, that I hadn't noticed that someone had sat down next to me on the curb. At least, until he pointedly cleared his throat. I my head snapped up. I stared at the boy sitting next to me. He was tall, had russet-colored skin, and looked carelessly handsome (at least, as handsome as a boy no older than fifteen could possible be.) Even though we were sitting down, I could tell he towered over me. His mop of messy black hair fell into his attentive grey eyes. Although all of these features were admirable, one thing stood out above all the rest; his smile. He flashed me a breathtakingly beautiful smile. His teeth were so white that I could've sworn that I saw my reflection in them. Not a single tooth was out of place. He had two boyishly-cute dimples on both of his cheeks I could only see when he dazzled me with that stunning smile of his.

I glanced up at him. Blue-green met sparkling gray. I saw his smile falter slightly out of the corner of my eye, just as I felt myself flinch. I knew what he saw in my eyes. I saw the same thing he did every time I looked into the mirror. In my blue-green eyes, he saw pain. Raw, sharp, excruciating, pain. That was what William saw earlier, what he didn't like. My eyes were the only part of me that ever showed any type of emotion. I hated them for it.

This boy however, had the same type of pain in his eyes that I only saw when I looked in the mirror. He had a permanent wrinkle in between his eyes brows that I knew mirrored my own. His eyes however, looked hardened somehow. As if they themselves had been through the fiery pits of hell, and lived to tell the tale. This boy, who looked no older than fifteen years of age, was wizened beyond his years.

I was the one who looked away. Of course I was. He smiled even wider this time as I felt my breath catch in my throat. He held out his hand, (which was more than twice the size of mine.) as if he wanted me to shake it. I put my palm in his, as he vigorously shook my arm and crushed my hand. "David Porter." He said to me, meeting my eyes once again. "April Reese." I replied, in a barely audible whisper. I couldn't even say my name clearly. How on earth was I going to manage a conversation with this ridiculously handsome young man? That was a question I didn't have the answer to.


End file.
